


wings aren’t what you need

by wethethousands (atlantisairlock)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlantisairlock/pseuds/wethethousands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you stop Natasha from sneaking into your place at two in the morning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	wings aren’t what you need

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'angel with a shotgun' by the cab.

**To : Clint**

Clint?

**To : Sharon**

Yeah, what's up?

**To : Clint**

How do you stop Natasha from sneaking into your place at two in the morning? 

**To : Sharon**

No clue.

**To : Sharon**

Hey, if you manage to find out, tell me. 

 

 

Sharon is vaguely perturbed by the fact that even _Clint Barton_ doesn't know how to keep the Black Widow from sauntering into one's apartment whenever she pleases. Not that sauntering is the right word. It would be more appropriate to describe Natasha's course of action as picking the lock on her window thirty storeys up and sliding into her living room. Even as a SHIELD agent, prepared for anything, it's a little terrifying whenever Sharon walks out of her room in the middle of her night for a drink and Natasha is on her sofa watching whatever trashy B-movie's on at the moment. 

But. _But._ Once they've established a routine, once Sharon's gotten used to frying bacon and brewing coffee for two, it's far,  _far_ more paralysing when Natasha  _doesn't_ appear in her apartment. No rhyme, no reason. No taps on her window, no footsteps on her ledge. Nothing. 

Nothing is... not good. 

 

 

**To : Clint**

Where's Natasha?

**To : Sharon**

off the grid

 

 

 _Off the grid_ is the worst thing one can hear about an agent, bar  _dead._

Her hands tremble when she cups her mug of tea. They are still trembling when there's a rap on the door six hours after she texts Clint. The sound of knuckles on wood -  _she knows._ Sharon rushes to the door and pulls it open, and -

she's there.

_Alive._

There's a gash on her cheek that goes all the way down to her jaw, one eye swelling.

_Alive._

One arm hangs loosely by her side, the other resting against the doorframe, propping herself up. 

_Alive._

There is blood on the frame, leaving a handprint, dripping. 

_Alive._

Alive. 

"Natasha."

"I'm sorry," Natasha says, and if it weren't for the gravity of the situation a giggle would probably burst past her lips at the absurdity of it all; that Natasha's apologising when she's wounded and bruised and bleeding. "I didn't mean to worry you."

She's already pulling Natasha into her apartment, into her bathroom to clean up her wounds. "Come here."

Natasha does. 


End file.
